


With Teeth We've Come This Far

by shadowsapiens



Category: Dororo (Anime 2019)
Genre: Drunk Sex, Even More Inexperienced Victim, First Kiss, First Orgasm, Inexperienced rapist, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Miscommunication, Obsession, Overstimulation, Possessive Behavior, Rapist Doesn't Think It's Rape, Sibling Incest, Touch-Starved, Victim Doesn't Know What Sex Is, the kids aren't all right
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-05-28 08:43:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19390579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowsapiens/pseuds/shadowsapiens
Summary: And there’s something about the demon’s pale, blank face, gilded by firelight, that draws Tahomaru in.





	With Teeth We've Come This Far

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jikatabi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jikatabi/gifts).



> Happy Nonconathon, Jikatabi! I loved your requests, and I hope this suits you :)
> 
> Fic is set somewhere before episode 17, so Hyakkimaru and Dororo are separated, and Hyakkimaru is still missing his arms, left leg, and eyes. And even though it's set nowhere near the ending, I'm definitely imagining this as a Tahomaru Lives! AU because that's how I roll ;D

The sun hasn’t set, but the sky is already dark with storm clouds as Tahomaru and his attendants hand over their horses. They reach the threshold of the inn just as the downpour begins. It’s a sudden shock of a drenching. Tahomaru flinches as the water buffets his shoulders, flattens down his hair. He has to squint with his one good eye to see the door.

The inn opens, a warm, golden haven, full up with fellow travelers. Tahomaru rubs the water from his eye, looks up, and freezes. He hears Hyoga swear, echoing as if from a distance, and his hand finds his sword hilt of its own volition.

At a table by the fire sits Hyakkimaru.

Tahomaru had vowed the next time he saw his brother he would kill him. But as he stands at the threshold, the rain roaring down in a flood at his back, his bone-weary attendants at his sides, he knows with heavy resignation that he’ll have to defer his vengeance. The storm’s too strong. The inn’s too full of merchants and peasants. His men are too tired. And there’s something about the demon’s pale, blank face, gilded by firelight, that draws Tahomaru in.

With effort, he removes his hand from his sword. He doesn’t miss the way every civilian in the inn relaxes. 

“My lord,” Mutsu murmurs behind him. 

Tahomaru answers her unspoken question: “Not tonight. Go rent us a room.” No matter how full the inn is, there will be a room for Daigo’s son.

Daigo’s _second_ son, he can’t help but correct himself, as he stares at the pale demon across the room. Hyakkimaru’s glass eyes are empty and dark, but he turns towards the door. He knows they’re there.

Hand still aching for his sword, he walks towards the demon. _He sees with his soul_ , the child had said. Tahomaru still doesn’t know what that means. He’s only ever had his eyes to see with, and now he only has the one.

As he stands over the monster who half-blinded him, he sees a youth strung tight as a bowstring, lips thinned in a tense line. Too-sharp collar bone, a deep blue bruise half-hidden by his robe. He holds one prosthetic wrist with the other hand, poised to yank off his arm and draw his sword.

Tahomaru sits across the table from him and says, “Hello, brother.”

⁂

Hyakkimaru had felt the storm coming all day, chilling him from the inside out. Every slight change in the weather is harsh on his new nerves. Harsher still when he’s alone. He’s grateful for his voice at least, and the words Dororo taught him. They allow him to offer coin for food, so the innkeeper doesn’t kick him out.

He settles in a corner, with food and a mug of something that burns his throat. It’s a good hurt. It warms his bones and soothes his aching shoulders. He thinks it’s what Dororo called sake, what the priest said Dororo couldn’t have. He doesn’t know why, when it feels so good.

He has only just finished warming up when the door opens, and cold spikes through him again. That soul, that shape, that _voice_. He knows his brother’s here.

He had foolishly thought he might spend a night safe from the storm. He was wrong, of course; he’s doomed to never be safe or comfortable or warm for long. He reaches for his arm and waits. He feels dizzy with the sake, and he’ll need to concentrate hard to finish the fight quickly.

But Tahomaru doesn’t attack. He sits down and greets him and summons more food, and asks, “What are you doing here?”

Still holding his wrist, Hyakkimaru feels unmoored, like if he moves at all, he’ll float away. He doesn’t understand. And he doesn’t want to tell Tahomaru why he’s here. Tahomaru doesn’t need to know that he’s lost Dororo, or that he’s looking for the man who fixes broken things.

Hyakkimaru wants to know why his-brother-who-hates-him is sitting here sharing a meal with him instead of attacking, but he struggles with words at the best of time. Right now, stunned and uncertain, he can only manage, “Hate.”

He sees that word tremble through Tahomaru’s soul. Then a movement. The sound of a cup draining and then clunking back on the table. Tahomaru continues eating and doesn’t ask anything else.

After a long time, what feels like hours, Hyakkimaru lets go of his arm. He lays his hands on the table and tries again, voice halting: “You hate me.”

Chopsticks click against the tabletop. “Sometimes,” Tahomaru says. His voice sounds different somehow, an odd low quality Hyakkimaru can’t interpret. He’s still trying to puzzle it out when Tahomaru speaks again, saying something too quick and complicated for Hyakkimaru to understand.

Another soul hovers near, too near, and Hyakkimaru flinches before he recognizes the innkeeper. Liquid splashes twice, their cups refilling. The innkeeper leaves and they’re still surrounded by people, but somehow they’re all alone. Hyakkimaru grates out another sentence. “Why aren’t we fighting?”

“Because I have questions,” Tahomaru says, like it’s obvious. But he doesn’t ask any questions. He says, “I’m paying for that sake, don’t waste it.”

The mug’s heavy in his hands. It would make a good weapon if he threw it. Instead he drinks, and the liquid’s cold but it makes him feel warm again.

His head spins. His body spins, but he hasn’t moved at all.

When the sake’s gone, Tahomaru stands up. He’s suddenly too close. He grabs Hyakkimaru’s arm and pulls. Hyakkimaru should draw his swords. He should fight. But Tahomaru’s hand is hot, his breath is hot in Hyakkimaru’s ear, and Hyakkimaru is so tired of being cold.

He should draw his swords. Instead, he lets Tahomaru lead him upstairs.

⁂

Tahomaru signals for Hyoga and Mutsu to remain downstairs. They don’t look happy, but they obey. Of course they obey. The wild thing is that _Hyakkimaru_ obeys, following Tahomaru’s pull.

The prosthetic is cold and hard under his hand. Hyakkimaru lurches to his feet, lacking some of his usual grace, and Tahomaru notes the rugged peg leg strapped to his knee. Tahomaru’s first thought is how ugly it looks, compared to Hyakkimaru’s finely crafted hands, his beautiful doll’s eyes. His second thought is, _Now would be the time to kill him._

His third thought is not a thought at all. It is a wordless flinch of sadness. He growls and shoves it aside.

Hyakkimaru stumbles again at the stairs, this time leaning his weight briefly against Tahoumaru’s side. He’s lighter than Tahomaru expected. His cheeks are faintly pink, unless that’s a trick of the light. Tahomaru wonders absurdly if his face is cold and rigid too. His neck. His lips.

The rented room is small and cramped. Likely the best in the inn. The rain’s louder up here, pounding steadily on the roof above. There are lanterns and a futon and another bottle of sake on the table. Tahomaru barely registers the furnishings; he’s distracted by Hyakkimaru. In the better lantern light, he sees that Hyakkimaru’s pale cheeks are definitely flushed. The color sweeps down his thin neck, crests his delicate ears.

Tahomaru lets go of his arm and steps back, turns his head to look at him better with just one eye. Hyakkimaru sways slightly. 

“You’re drunk,” Tahomaru says suddenly.

Hyakkimaru shakes his head in apparent confusion and steps back. He doesn’t look like a demon right now. He looks like a boy, lonely and beautiful, a lost prince dressed in rags. 

If they fought right now, Tahomaru thinks he would win. But he doesn’t want to fight. The storm outside still rumbles, the rain hissing steadily against the shuttered windows, and he doesn’t know what he wants instead.

He just knows it’s here.

Hyakkimaru speaks again, every word carefully formed. “Why aren’t you attacking?” The same question as before. Like he can sense the same thing missing, that unspoken, unknown purpose that has led them to this place on this night.

Tahomaru still doesn’t have an answer. “Why aren’t you?”

“Fight demons,” Hyakkimaru answers, his frown deepening. “No demons here.”

Tahomaru isn’t so sure of that. He feels monstrous inside, curiosity bubbling up in him. “No demons here,” he repeats. He steps forward. Hyakkimaru steps back. He steps forward again and Hyakkimaru’s wooden leg catches on the edge of a tatami mat, and Tahomaru holds him upright by his arms. Hard prosthetics again. Tahomaru knows there are sharp blades underneath but right now they’re like porcelain trembling in the thunder. 

Hyakkimaru’s steady again. Tahomaru doesn’t let go. His hands slide down Hyakkimaru’s arms to circle his thin jointed wrists. They're close now. Closer than they’ve ever been, outside the heat of battle. Tahomaru can smell the sweat on him. He can see the scuffs on his doll-like hands, the worn joints. The ragged robe riding up over his smooth thighs, the seam between prosthetic and flesh.

This is the secret Tahomaru has chased all his life, he realizes anew. Just to know about his brother is forbidden—much less to see him. To talk with him. To touch. He lays a hand on Hyakkimaru’s chest and feels him shudder through the thin robe, hears the whispered, “Tahomaru,” when his fingers dip down the hollows between ribs. 

His fascination peaks. He trembles with the same bloodlust that takes him in battle. Pulse quickening, palms itching. He shouldn’t be doing this, he thinks, and the thought isn’t cautious, it’s giddy. 

He touches the seam between shoulder and arm, fingers riding up under Hyakkimaru’s sleeve. The skin is warm there, callused, and Hyakkimaru’s breath hitches.

“Does it hurt?” Tahomaru presses harder. Disappointingly, Hyakkimaru shakes his head. Even flushed with alcohol and nerves, there’s something so impassive about his expression. Tahomaru’s seized with the urge to break that composure. He asks, voice rough, “Can I touch you?”

Hyakkimaru licks his lips. He looks so thin. “You’re already touching me.”

Tahomaru laughs, and touches that thin neck. Feels the pulse thrumming under delicate skin. The storm outside seems to hush, and all Tahomaru can hear is his brother’s heartbeat. 

His brother. Tahomaru doesn’t feel very brotherly as he flattens his palm around Hyakkimaru’s neck. As Hyakkimaru’s faint gasp, the sight of his softly parting lips, hooks deep in his gut and tugs him forward.

As he bends forward and covers those lips with his own.

⁂

Hyakkimaru freezes. Tahomaru is close. He’s too close. Hyakkimaru opens his mouth to say, _Let go of me_ , but then Tahomaru’s mouth is on his mouth, and Hyakkimaru is too shocked to pull away.

Tahomaru’s mouth feels strange. His lips are almost cool, dry against Hyakkimaru’s upper lip, gently, slowly moving. They part enough for Hyakkimaru to gasp for breath, before they’re together again. This time there’s wet, warm pressure on his lower lip, against his teeth. Tahomaru’s tongue. It shouldn’t be there. He doesn’t understand why Tahomaru’s doing this.

He jerks backwards so he can breathe, but he still can’t. His lungs aren’t working. Tahomaru’s hand is still on his neck and Hyakkimaru feels it like a brand on his skin, pulling his pulse faster and faster to the surface. 

“What is that?” he asks. His voice sounds too high in his inexperienced ears.

Tahomaru leans closer while Hyakkimaru cringes back. His hand tangles in Hyakkimaru’s hair. “Have you never kissed anyone before?”

Hyakkimaru hears the words, but he struggles to assign meaning to the sounds. It’s hard to think when Tahomaru’s hand is so warm against the back of his skull, delicate, living fingers tugging the roots of his hair.

“I want to kiss you again.” Tahomaru’s voice is low and urgent. “I want to understand you.”

Kiss. This is a kiss, when Tahomaru’s mouth slides against his, presses wet and tender to his jaw. This is a kiss, when he breathes beneath Hyakkimaru’s hair, like he’s drinking him in. This is a kiss, when Hyakkimaru’s lungs seize up, when he chokes on some strange sensation between fear and elation.

Fear, definitely fear, when Tahomaru’s hands slip down his front and start pulling on his sash. His skin crawls with strangeness.

“Stop,” he whispers. “This is bad.”

Tahomaru doesn’t stop. “I don’t care.” He murmurs in Hyakkimaru’s ear, so close the softest word hurts: “You feel it too, don’t you? This thing connecting us. Can’t you feel it?”

His palm spreads over Hyakkimaru’s heart, and the skin between them shivers, and Hyakkimaru feels it. He doesn’t have a word for it, but he shakes with it. His heart pounds so hard he fears his ribs will fracture.

He places his hand on Tahomaru’s chest, and he feels the rhythm vibrating through the prosthetic, up into his shoulder. Tahomaru’s heart is pounding too. 

Tahomaru must take that as an answer. He groans as if he’s hurt, and then his hands are on Hyakkimaru’s shoulders and he’s sliding the robe from his body. The fabric falls, and Hyakkimaru shivers harder. He’s too hot outside, skin lighting up with Tahomaru’s touch, and too cold inside, as something sick and horrible clenches in his gut.

 _Stop,_ he tries to say, but his throat isn’t working.

⁂

Fuck. Maybe this is going too fast. But after they kiss, every movement feels inevitable. As if from the moment they came upstairs, the moment he saw Hyakkimaru sitting by the fire, they were destined to end up here.

The black robe drops to the ground, baring a lean stretch of scars and pale skin—and the red flush down his chest. The rabbit-quick rise and fall of his chest. He’s responding. He wants this too. 

It’s clear from Hyakkimaru’s hesitance that he has even less experience than Tahomaru, who’s at least kissed girls, and one village boy. Tahomaru’s shocked with his own possessive pleasure at the realization. Nobody else has ever seen Hyakkimaru like this. Nobody else has touched him like this, and Tahomaru proves that to himself with both hands on Hyakkimaru’s waist, running behind his back, up his chest, savoring every shudder he can draw from Hyakkimaru’s bones.

He doesn’t seem so terrifying like this. He doesn’t seem like a monster when Tahomaru rests feather-light fingers against his lips. He’s beautiful in the lamplight. Almost delicate. Eyes wide and bruise-dark in that flushed-pink face. Tahomaru wants him, in his entirety.

“Lie down,” he says, before he loses his nerve.

Hyakkimaru only steps back. But he complies when Tahomaru pushes and pulls him down onto the futon. They lose their balance halfway down, sprawling gracelessly. Hyakkimaru gasps with the impact. Somehow his wooden hand has knotted in Tahomaru’s collar. It’s a reminder he’s still fully dressed. His heavy robes look like blood and shadow against Hyakkimaru’s bone-pale skin. Still damp from the rain, still cold. But he doesn’t think that’s why Hyakkimaru is shivering. 

Poised precariously above his brother, Tahomaru feels invincible. He’s never been this hard in his life. His every nerve sings with need.

Hyakkimaru licks his lips. He whispers, “Bad.” But he doesn’t push Tahomaru away. He just whimpers when Tahomaru kisses him again.

His missing eye burns. A familiar darkness surges inside him, as if called to the surface by the darkness in Hyakkimaru. It’s a rage, a violence he’s fought with all his life. But when he touches Hyakkimaru’s belly, it’s with gentle fingers. He doesn’t want to fight tonight. He just wants to touch him, to take him, to claim all of him as his.

This body is his kingdom. This body is his birthright, claimed with blood. This body is warm and trembling and alive as he pulls away the rest of its clothes.

“I know it’s bad,” Tahomaru pants. He can hardly breathe, he wants this so bad, and Hyakkimaru’s squirming wildly under him. “We’re brothers. You’re the enemy. But I don’t care. Nobody will know.” He finally finishes stripping Hyakkimaru, pinning his real leg down and out with his knee, spreading him out on the mattress. “This is _our_ secret.”

He touches Hyakkimaru’s cock, and Hyakkimaru arches half off the mattress, mouth wide with shock. Tahomaru nearly forgets his own arousal in awe of his brother’s ecstasy. Hyakkimaru’s half-hard, hot in his hand. He falls back, hair in his face, panting. When Tahomaru strokes gently up his shaft, he lets out the neediest whimper, a quiet animal sound. His hands twitch in Tahomaru’s collar, neither pulling nor pushing.

Tahomaru leans down and kisses his brother’s neck, just above the pulse. He whispers against wet skin, “Does that feel good?”

Hyakkimaru whimpers again. “Hurts.”

Heat surges through him. He tightens his grip. He whispers, “I won’t hurt you tonight,” and he knows it’s a lie.

⁂

Hurt is the wrong word, but Hyakkimaru can’t think of a better one to describe the maelstrom of sensation crashing through him. Tahomaru’s hand on his cock is shattering. He’s felt echoes of this since he regained his sense of touch, faint flurries of heat when he shifted or dressed, and sometimes after dreaming. But it always frightened him. He never chased the sensations, and they always went away.

This isn’t going away. Tahomaru over him, pressing him down—clothes heavy with rain sliding over Hyakkimaru’s bare skin—Tahomaru’s hand is too warm, his breath on his neck is too warm. He’s too close. All Hyakkimaru can see is his soul, too close and too bright and shimmering with dark fire.

He doesn’t want to be here. He’s still dizzy with drink and the overwhelming touch, But he is about to escape anyway, he is about to shove Tahomaru aside and make his escape, when Tahomaru’s palm slides faster up his cock.

Hyakkimaru whines. The sound is foreign in his ears, echoes oddly through his bones. Tahomaru strokes harder, and it’s like every nerve in his body has coalesced where they touch, the sensation so painfully vivid it’s like he doesn’t have skin again. He can’t move. He’s shaking all over. His fists are locked in Tahomaru’s clothes and he thinks, _Let go, let go,_ but his hands won’t respond.

Tahomaru’s grip tightens, and the feeling crests and crests, until something inside him snaps. With a thin cry, Hyakkimaru convulses, jerking mindlessly against his brother. The sensation thunders through him, all-consuming, too much, too much—

At last, Tahomaru lets go.

Hyakkimaru collapses backwards, panting raggedly. His body still sings. He _hurts_. But less and less with each moment, as he softens, as the memory of touch grows more distant. Maybe it’s over. Maybe once Tahomaru stands up and leaves, this feeling will fade and Hyakkimaru will be able to move and think again. 

Tahomaru presses an open kiss against his shoulder, then starts standing. Hyakkimaru’s hands finally loosen and fall to the bed. He tries to lift them, but they still aren’t responding right. He’s too overwhelmed to move any part of his body, whether flesh or wood. He’s still lying in place, helpless, when Tahomaru returns to the bed.

Tahomaru touches his right leg, the one he can feel, inside the knee. Hyakkimaru jerks; Tahomaru’s fingers are strangely cold and wet now. Tahomaru touches gently upwards towards more sensitive skin.

 _No,_ he tries to say. He won’t survive another touch like before, he’ll fall apart at the seams, overwhelmed and broken by the body he’s repaired. The word catches in his throat. All he can do is whimper, and that only draws Tahomaru closer to him.

Tahomaru leans over his body and breathes against his lips, “You want this.” His hand drifts higher over Hyakkimaru’s trembling thigh. But the hated, searing touch on his cock never comes. Instead Tahomaru presses further back, slick fingers sliding over his hole.

Hyakkimaru can’t understand the next words Tahomaru says. He hears his low voice, but interpretation is too much for him. All he can concentrate on is Tahomaru’s fingers pressing against him, slick against sensitive flesh.

This is better at first. Strange, yet less painfully pleasurable. Until Tahomaru says something else unintelligible and then one finger pushes in. 

He knows Tahomaru’s hands are ordinary in size, but the intrusion feels enormous. He tries to squirm away from it, but he can’t escape. Tahomaru’s heavy above him, one hand in his hair, holding him down. His finger keeps moving, impossible to adjust to, and every slick shifting movement, Hyakkimaru’s nerves are driven further past his limits. He didn’t even know he had so many limits until Tahomaru broke them tonight.

Tahomaru withdraws. He says something else, then kisses him. He doesn’t seem to mind that Hyakkimaru’s lips are slack and unresponsive; he dives into him, slow and tender. Maybe this could have felt good if it was all they did.

The kiss breaks. Intrusive pressure returns, but much larger this time. Tahomaru has his arm up under his right leg, spreading him open and vulnerable, and penetrates him slowly. Blunt forcing into his flesh, slowly, slowly hurting him.

He struggles to mentally map out the shape of Tahomaru, to figure out how they’re connecting. Words flash through his mind, gutter sounds he’s caught in passing that no one will define for him. But in the end, in the burning darkness, it doesn’t matter what this is. All that matters is that it’s happening to him, and he hates it.

The rain falls harder. Tahomaru breathes louder. The scent of sweat and bodies surrounds him. Overwhelmed in every sense he has, Hyakkimaru’s head falls to the side. He tries to drift away from his body’s trembling.

He’s seen souls entwined like this before. He never knew what it meant, but he’d guessed they were holding each other close in comfort. Because it felt good. Because they felt safe together. How naive, he knows now. He doesn’t feel safe at all.

⁂

Gasping, Tahomaru sinks fully into his brother’s body. Hyakkimaru is so tight and warm around him. The pleasure ricochets along his spine. Even better than that, though, is the sight of Hyakkimaru below him, pliant and submissive. He’d expected more of a fight, more protest, but Hyakkimaru must want this as much as he does, because he isn’t resisting at all. Just lying there. Tahomaru can do anything he wants to him.

He thrusts in, slowly again, and savors Hyakkimaru’s breathy whine, the delicate flush across his cheeks. Hyakkimaru is so beautiful like this, and Tahomaru feels again that surge of possessive pleasure. Nobody else has seen his brother like this.

His whole life has been shaped and scarred by Hyakkimaru’s absence, far more painfully than the loss of his eye. Now, if only for tonight, he can leave his mark on Hyakkimaru too. And Hyakkimaru will have to live with that—they both will—until they meet in battle again.

He moves slowly at first, wanting to draw out the moment, but Hyakkimaru is so beautiful and tight around him, he can’t hold back for long. He curves over and thrusts harder, movements erratic. Desperation blazes through his veins, tremendous heat. His underlayers stick to his skin with sweat. The makeshift left leg digs uncomfortably into his thigh with every thrust. Everything is sticky and wet and uncomfortable, and he loses himself in the pleasure.

His forehead drops against Hyakkimaru’s bare chest. He’s close, so close. Then he drives in harder and Hyakkimaru whimpers and he’s there. His orgasm pierces him like a sword. It blinds him, deafens him. All the world falls away except the triumphant pleasure coursing from his body.

He lies collapsed for a while until the world returns. For a while, all he can hear is Hyakkimaru’s heartbeat stuttering in his ear. Then Hyakkimaru’s ragged breath stirring in his hair. Then the clatter and hiss of the rain outside, and Tahomaru remembers with a pang that this lamplit reprieve can’t last. The night beyond is dark and cold.

⁂

Hyakkimaru doesn’t know how long they spend collapsed together. He only knows he’s grateful when Tahomaru at last withdraws from him and leaves the bed. No longer weighed down, it still takes him too much effort to sit up; once he does, his head spins, and his stomach twists. He bows his head and hugs his knee, fighting the nausea.

He still hurts inside. His face burns around his glass eyes. He still can’t quite catch his breath.

The rain’s softening outside. In the new quiet, he can clearly hear Tahomaru moving around the room, clothing shifting. The soft thud as a cup is set back on the table. Footsteps approaching—he flinches.

But Tahomaru doesn’t touch him again. He just stands too close and says, “Hyakkimaru, next time… We don’t...”

Hyakkimaru isn’t good at judging voices, but right now, he thinks Tahomaru sounds very young. He looks up, but there’s no difference in his brother’s soul. It’s still the same dark-white fire. How strange, when Hyakkimaru himself feels so sick and different.

He flexes his hands. The wooden joints click. He remembers Tahomaru’s flesh and blood hands against him, how good they felt, how much more painful than any sword. He opens his mouth, and his voice is rusty but he can speak again: “Go.”

“Hyakkimaru,” Tahomaru says again. It sounds like the start of something, but it isn’t. After a long moment, the footsteps thud away, and the door clatters open and shut, and Tahomaru is gone.

Hyakkimaru has never been so grateful to be alone. He curls up on the thin bed, even though it smells so strongly of them. He has no chance of forgetting anyway, not when his entire broken body aches with bruises. The memories resonate through him, inescapable, as if his brother is still touching him.

As the night outside falls silent, his shoulders begin to shake. He sobs.

⁂

The inn’s quiet when Tahomaru returns downstairs. A few locals remain in one corner, and Mutsu and Hyogo stand guard. They jump to attention when they see him.

“My lord, are you—” Mutsu starts, but cuts off when Tahomaru gestures.

Tahomaru is not all right. He’s in some strange unmoored state he couldn’t put to words even if he wanted to. “Ready the horses,” he says, not looking his companions in the eyes as he strides for the door. “We’re leaving.”

“It’s near midnight,” Hyogo protests.

But Mutsu says, “At once, my lord.”

They both follow him outside. Tahomaru’s grateful they don’t ask questions.

The cold night is a relief against his burning face. He’s too hot and jittery. He can’t sleep tonight. He can’t stay here, under the same roof as his brother, where they’ll kill each other—or, even worse, they won’t.

He claimed Hyakkimaru’s body, just like he wanted. But he feels like he left something else behind too, something far more vital and dangerous to lose than an eye. He can’t afford to lose anything else, unless he gains something too. Riding into the night, he thinks of pale skin darkening under his fingers, and the seams of flesh and wood.


End file.
